Done All Wrong
by Nuage14
Summary: Gideon still wears his wedding ring, even after he became a widower and a woman he thought he could love was murdered in his apartment. More of a drabble than a oneshot.


Disclaimer: I do not own _Criminal Minds. _I just write about it in my spare time.

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><p>This is based off of Elle and Gideon's conversation in <em>What Fresh Hell?<em>

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><p><em>"This above all: To your own self, be true."<em>

_- William Shakespeare -  
><em>

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><p>"So, where's the lucky lady?" he asked, innocently enough that the question didn't sound so personal.<p>

You noticed him eying your ring all night, how he must wonder why you came here alone when your wife could have come too. You almost want to laugh at his ignorance, but you know it's not his fault. The two of you are barely friends, so why should he know something like that?

You chuckle lightly, a failed attempt to lighten any news you're about to deliver. "No," you answer, your grip tightening on your glass. "Not married."

The smile comes clean off his face. He leans in. "Divorce?" he whispers, as if he were telling you this big, bad secret.

You've always found people captivating. That was why you did what you did, along with many other reasons. You half-wonder if you should tell him the truth, or let him believe a lie. Either way, he's going to tell his buddies next time he goes golfing, or tell his wife and let her spread around. That was how these people thrived.

You wonder why you even live here. Then you remember that this place is across the country from all the pain you've been dealt in your life. As far as you can get without losing anymore.

"No. I wish," you say, mysterious as ever. A blank look flashes across his face. He can't put the puzzle pieces together.

You used to work with some of the greatest minds in the country. Perhaps, one of may very well be one of the best in the world. Now, you work in a small area filled with people who are not as smart. They're not dumb, they're just not too bright.

You want to rest your head in your hand, or pinch the bridge or your nose, or do something equal that will show how frustrated you are. You choose not to. Not everyone can be a profiler, a fact you've found out the hard way.

You clear your throat. "She died. Many years ago," you tell him. More of the burning liquid in your glass streams it way down your throat. You find yourself wanting to cough. You are way too polite to do so, however. It isn't as flashy or big as it had been years ago, but you still have a reputation.

"I'm so sorry," he says. He's either sorry that your wife is dead, or that he even asked. You assume the latter, since you don't really want to look that deep into it. You just want to be happy, really.

One question was at the tip of his tongue, but he would never ask it. He had too much class to ask, so you answer the unspoken question. "It was cancer. Nasty battle, actually," you say.

Suddenly, you see Billie _'s face flash before your eyes. That was many years ago, but you can still fully recall her face as if you had just seen her. She had been stuck in the same situation your son had been in, with one parent with cancer and the other fighting a hard battle, to have the blame on them for everything. In your story, though, your son learned to hate you for years. He never quite understood there was nothing to be done, even when his mother died days after he turned eighteen.

"Never able to grasp the dating scene again?" he asked. You wonder about his sudden interest. A new topic to talk about with people, great icebreaker. Maybe he was a nosey man who wanted to know everything about everyone, to gain an upper hand. Then again, he could just be asking because, in truth and reality, he was indeed your friend.

Another blow. You tell him, "I almost did. A friend from college."

He nods. Curiosity is written all over in his face, in bright colors that just appeared to be screaming. A quick glance around the room. No one else notice the obvious eagerness to listen and to know, but no one else was a retired profiler. At least, not that you knew of.

"She was killed," you tell him. You down the last of your drink, almost wincing,

So, you smile. "Excuse me," you say, leaving behind your new friend and your empty glass. You may never talk to him again after this. Maybe it was another time to move past this town to another one. You've found it easy to move from place to place.

He stared back. Never able to understand, you believe. It didn't matter anymore. He would never see you again and you would never see him. You tend to do that. You tend to leave people behind, except your son.

You leave people behind and it doesn't seem to affect you anymore.

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><p><em>"We can never turn back the pages of time, though we may wish to relive a happy moment, or say goodbye just one last time, we never can, because the sands of time continue to fall, and we can't turn the hourglass over." <em>

_- Unknown -  
><em>


End file.
